But he could not know, without knowing me, and this time he will be a character, not an observer, when the thing of terrible beauty occurs.
We both watch the pale gray eyes on the sliding panel.He takes aspirins in advance whea he drinks, which means he will be mixing us more.
But his hand ... It stops short of the medicine chestFramed in the tile and stainless steel, we both regard reflections of a stranger."Good evening."After .ten years, those two words, and on the eve of the last performancel Activating his voice to reply would be rather silly, evenif I could manage it, and it would doubtless be upsetting.
I waited, and so did he.
Finally, like an organ player, I pedalled and chordedthe necessary synapses: Good evening. Please go ahead and take your aspirins.
He did. Then he picked up his drink from the ledge,
"I hope you enjoy Martinis."
/ do. Very much. Please drink more.
He smirked at us and returned to the living room.
"What are you? A psychosis? A dybbuk?"
Oh, no! Nothing like that—Just a member of theaudience.
"I don't recall selling you a ticket"
You did not exactly invite me, but I didn't think youwould mind, if I kept quiet. .. .
"Very decent of you."
He mixed another drink, then looked out at the building across the way. It had two lighted windows, on different floors, like misplaced eyes.
"Mind if I ask why?"
Not at all. Perhaps you can even help me. I am anitinerant esthetician. I have to borrow bodies on theworlds I visit—preferably those of beings with similarinterests. -
"I see—you're a gate-crasher.'*
Sort of, I guess. I try not to cause any trouble, though.